


Horizontal Hula

by LithiumCrystal



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, Language Kink, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumCrystal/pseuds/LithiumCrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That time Grif is drunk and speaks Hawaiian and it totally blind-sides Simmons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horizontal Hula

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the dub con tag (drunken party doesn't ask sober person's permission, although it isn't unwanted, it does happen quite spontaneously)

Simmons is in the base's kitchen when Grif comes in looking utterly disheveled. The maroon soldier immediately knows his teammate is drunk for a number of reasons; the whisky and chain-smoking smell clinging to him, the slight stagger to his gait and the unfocused look in his eyes.  
  
An overtaxed sigh forces its way from Simmons’ mouth; it’s the third time in a month, for crying out loud.  
  
“Again? Seriously Grif, if Sarge sees you like this he’ll have a fit’ he grumbles, turning to the sink to pour his irresponsible pseudo-friend some water then adds “and I am _not_ covering for you again.”  
  
He’s got the glass halfway full when he senses Grif slinking up behind him and then before he can say anything, a pair of arms envelops him, sliding around his waist and pulling him back against a broad chest. The glass slips from Simmons’ hand, managing to miss the sink and spills its contents all over the bench.  
  
“Grif, let _go_!” He injects angrily at the man behind him; the same man who is currently nosing his way into the crook of Simmons’ neck and pressing his mouth to it with a happy hum.  
  
“ _Grif!_ ”  
  
Simmons has previously encountered how his usually somewhat prickly teammate gets overly-affectionate when drinking. Donut may appreciate getting hugs from him but Simmons doesn’t have time for that kind of nonsense.  
  
Well... That and he really doesn’t appreciate the way his own body responds to having Grif’s soft, warm bulk press against him. It’s something he’d much rather force deep down inside and forget; something he can’t do when- _Grif is kissing his neck_.

Startled, Simmons freezes up as the other soldier lazily slides his lips against bare skin.  
  
“... Grif?” Simmons squeaks and his tormentor pauses, drawing away slightly but only so his mouth is level to Simmons’ ear. His breath causes strands of hair to tickle against skin, causing the other man to gulp nervously when Grif leans in and whispers;  
  
“ _Nou No Ka `I`ini_...”  
  
..... Huh?  
  
Simmons is no linguist but he’s pretty sure Grif is speaking Hawaiian and not just rambling drunken nonsense into his ear. That’s... Weird. Weird but also kind of interesting; despite knowing that Grif had grown up in Honolulu, Simmons had never clicked to him being bilingual. Truthfully he wouldn’t have thought the lazy bastard had the energy to pick up more than one language.  
  
With a small sigh, Grif drops his lips back down to meet Simmons’ skin and plants a kiss upon the curve between his neck and shoulder. Simmons shivers and tries to pull away but Grif’s got him locked tightly against his chest.  
  
“ _Nou No Ka `I`ini Nui.._.” he murmurs and then all but latches onto Simmons’ neck.  
  
Simmons can’t help the moan that escapes his lips as the sensation of Grif sucking a mark onto his skin sends a pulse of need southward. This is getting quickly out of hand.  
  
“What are you saying- _stop that_!” he yelps as Grif nudges a button open on his shirt and slides a hand across the flat plain of his belly. Grif pulls his mouth off Simmons’ neck with a drunken giggle.  
  
“ _Kiuke_ ’ he comments “ _Kiuke nui loa_ ”and rubs his head playfully against Simmons’ like an affectionate cat.  
  
“Grif, I don’t know what you’re _saying_!” Simmons protests, trying to keep the whine out of his voice; he’s getting frustrated, in more ways than one as Grif continues to palm warm hands over his bare skin. He seems unconcerned about Simmons’ discomfort and hums contentedly into the other man’s hair. Simmons gives another half-hearted attempt at pulling away but this time Grif growls softly and then he’s tugging Simmons around, forcing him to turn so they’re face-to-face.  
  
Simmons blinks, startled. Grif’s hands are now resting in the small of his back and he’s close enough that Simmons can smell the sweet smoke scent of his breath and yeah, actually this is _too_ close.  
  
“Grif...” he says in warning as the other man sways in and bumps his nose gently against Simmons’ cheek. Grif isn’t deterred though because he manages to get in another inch closer so they’re pressed flush together and Simmons is pretty sure he’s going to die of embarrassment as one of Grif’s thighs nudges between his; the fact he's hard as a fucking rock wouldn't have been noticeable before but in this position it has to be unmissable.  
  
He should probably tell Grif to get the hell off him but can’t summon the words as sweet alcohol-tinged breath brushes his lips and now Grif is _looking_ at him with an expression Simmons has never seen before and he’s leaning in closer, and-  
  
“ _Na'u `oe_ " Grif breathes and seals his lips over Simmons’.  
  
And just like that. The moment those lips fix on his and those hands dig into his back, Simmons is fucking _gone_ ; straight up melting into the warmth of Grif's mouth. It’s so, so wrong but the other soldier is a fantastic kisser; Simmons doesn’t have much experience but Jesus, in all his dreams he’d never imagined it would be this good. He’s powerless to prevent the moan that escapes his throat when Grif’s teeth scrape his lips and then the tip of his tongue flicks out to tease at it.  
  
Hips press flush against Simmons’, pinning him against the counter; his dick swells at the friction and yeah, he’s pretty sure he’s going to come in his pants like a horny teenager; soon too, otherwise he’s actually going to to _die_ and be forced to haunt Grif’s stupid ass for the rest of eternity.  
  
_Oh_... It’s like his tormentor has heard his thoughts because his hands are dragging Simmons’ shirt out from where he’d carefully tucked it in according to military regulations that nobody else follows. He gives a soft gasp as his pants are unzipped and pulled down his legs along with his boxer briefs. As the cool air hits his bared skin, Simmons feels a pang of self-consciousness and tenses up.  
  
Grif doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does he really doesn’t care because all of a sudden he is _sliding_ down Simmons’ body with a grace he of all people should not possess and then he’s breathing straight onto Simmons’ dick. The sensation makes the higher-ranking soldier’s hips give an involuntary jump and it’s enough to make the tip of his cock slide along the damp seam of Grif’s mouth.  
  
Simmons should be given some kind of fucking medal for not coming right then and there.  
  
Grif makes a noise like he’s broken him and just as Simmons is thinking that it isn’t fair because _he’s_ the one trying not slide into a boneless heap on the floor, Grif opens his mouth and Simmons’ cock slides right in.  
  
_Jesus. Fucking. Christ._  
  
It’s all he can do not to fall over; instead he ends up with his hands braced on Grif’s broad shoulders, his upper body curled forward over Grif’s head so that the other soldier’s hair tickles the skin of his belly where his shirt is hitched up. Simmons brain has for once relinquished control and his body is fixed on the notion that burying his dick in his teammate’s throat is _the best idea ever_. How Grif’s not choking he doesn’t know, doesn’t care; all he can think about is the perfect tight suction of that mouth sealed around him and it’s too fucking much and-  
  
With a cry he comes hard, hot and wet and Grif swallows every drop, lapping at the tip of Simmons dick as he finishes. The maroon soldier is completely wrecked; shaking with exertion and the sheer fucking realisation that _Dexter Grif has just sucked his fucking brain out through his dick_.  
  
He’s still panting and leaning back against the counter for support as Grif gets to his feet and plants a kiss square on his lips. He stays close to Simmons’ face for a second, eyes sparkling with a kind of mirth nobody who knows him would think he possessed.  
  
“ _ku`uipo_ ” he says fondly, tucking a helpless Simmons back into his pants and zipping him up. Grif walks away then, whistling some tune to himself, the drunken stagger to his gait now gone. Simmons wonders how drunk he actually was in the first place. He wonders if this is a onetime thing or if it’ll happen again. He wonders about a lot of things right then...  
  
Like how much would it cost to ship a Hawaiian dictionary to Blood Gulch.  
  
_-End-_


End file.
